


That New Recipe

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Foursome, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ignis' cooking gives various status effects, depending on the recipe. It's never donethisbefore, Prompto knows.This being the unstoppable urge to fuck his best friends, over and over and over again. Good thing they all ate the same meal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over on the kinkmeme: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3016.html?thread=2570952#cmt2570952
> 
> No beta but any concrit is more than welcome. Thank you for reading!

Possibly because he’s the smallest – or possibly he just pigged out that evening, who knows, it was fucking tasty, okay – Prompto is the first to be affected. The effect is a boner.

Prompto is also watching Gladio do shirtless, one-handed push-ups, therefore the boner is awkward but very much not unexpected. He has his camera in his hands; at one point he’d been flicking through the day’s photos, but he kind of got distracted. He’s managed not to take a quick snapshot, but only just. He’s not _that_ shameless – not when everyone will see when they look at his photos, anyway. Maybe he can take one on his phone...

He’s used to awkward boners. He gets them all the time, travelling with these three. Apparently his dick never got the memo that he isn’t a horny teenager any more, and that it’s not cool popping boners because of people he has absolutely zero chance with. Prompto carefully lets the camera rest a little closer to his lap – it isn’t exactly obvious, his trousers are pretty tight and unrevealing, and why would anyone be staring at his crotch anyway? but better safe than sorry, that’s what Ignis always says – and wills himself to think of unsexy things. He is a pro at this, by now. Not that it’s something to be proud of, but whatever. It’s a useful life skill.

Okay. Right. Ignore Gladio. Think of unsexy things. That gross old man the other day in Lestallum, the one with bad breath and pineapple short shorts, who’d stood way too close to him in the bar. The frog they’d found squashed under the tent yesterday morning. His old high-school science teacher who’d been like ninety and still tried to ‘get down with the kids’.

Oh, gods, Prompto will be on his deathbed cringing at the memory of Mr Vetus and his many, invariably failed attempts at slang.

He’s cringing now, but his dick still throbs, persistently. Okay, that’s kind of weird, because he can hear Mr Ventus saying _that’s sick_ in his old man voice and holy fuck is it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment? Is it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment when his dick is this ragingly hard?

Prompto shifts a little, and the friction of his underwear against his dick shoots hot sparks of pleasure right into him, his balls tightening and thighs tensing and okay, yeah, that isn’t normal even with a half-naked Gladio on the ground in front of him, sweat beading on his tattooed skin, breathing hard, muscles gleaming in the firelight as they bunch and flex...

The moan comes out before he can stop it. Prompto slaps his hands over his mouth, but it’s too late.

Gladio stops his push-ups. Ignis looks up from his notebook, and Noct from his phone. Prompt can feel himself turn bright red, and fuck, fuck, apparently not even utter, burning humiliation is enough to cool this hard-on. His camera is lying in his lap, pressing down on his dick, and gods, even now Prompto is _this close_ to thrusting up against it.

‘Are you alright?’ Ignis asks, and Prompto is pretty sure Ignis is using his normal voice, only holy fuck his normal voice is smooth and sexy and that accent makes Prompto want to climb the man like a fucking tree, tear off his shirt and lick his nipples and–

Nope. That had been the wrong thing to think, because his dick is actually so hard it’s painful, the stationary pressure of the camera and his own clothes are agony, and he thinks if he moves now he might just combust into a flaming pillar of uncontrollable lust. He grabs his camera off his dick but the friction from that only sends another jolt of electric heat through his gut, up his lungs, and into the back of his throat, sparking behind his eyes.

‘I’m fine,’ he squeaks, because Ignis is still looking at him, and his lips are perfectly shaped, actually legit perfect, like some old classical painting, but maybe they’ll be even more perfect if they’re wet, red, and a little swollen as they wrap around Prompto’s cock–

Prompto’s hands, still gripping the camera hard enough to make the casing creak, press down on his dick. It isn’t intentional. He is about eighty per-cent sure his dick has taken over his body and his brain is now the bystander with occasional suggestive input. He leans down, as if still checking his photos, and after a while he can see the others also look away. Prompto manages to wait another couple of moments that last approximately three geological ages each; then he moves. His hands are shaking as he pulls them slowly up the length of his dick, still trapped tight in his pants, trying to make it look like he’s simply adjusting the camera to better look at it.

The pressure is white hot; he goes lightheaded as his dick decides to commandeer his blood as well as every bit of good sense he’s ever had. His toes are curling in his shoes, his whole lower body tenses, his balls draw up and there’s a wound spring in his belly that really, _really_ can’t hold on for much longer. Prompto bites his lower lip in an attempt stop the whimper building up in his throat. He drags his hands back down, then up. He pretends to scratch his thigh, bending his wrist down to scrape across his crotch. His breath catches in his throat. It occurs to him, fuzzily, that he really ought to be doing this away from the camp, that all he has to do is get up and walk a couple of dozen meters. He just needs to take back control of his body and walk, and come on, he learnt that shit when he was literally a baby – but nope, apparently it’s not happening. He isn’t entirely sure he can walk at this point even if he managed to get up – he’d only trip onto his face, probably fall right into the camp fire, and that’d definitely get everyone’s attention. Better to just deal with this as quietly as possible, here and now…

Yeah, he’s being a complete fucking idiot, he thinks, but he can’t stop himself. Brain is definitely in the backseat, dick taking the wheel. Now he knows what Ignis feels like when he or Noct drives.

Fuck, poor Iggy.

Prompto sucks on his lower lip, gnawing at it as he becomes uncomfortably aware of his nipples brushing against the fabric of his top. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something, heart racing, trying really hard not to breathe too loudly but with no clue if he’s actually succeeding or not. His face is burning up. His whole body is burning up. He double checks that no-one’s looking then strokes his dick with the heel of one hand, hard pressure, tightness spooling in his gut as his fingers tingle with pins and needles. He’s so close. Another stroke.

He’s going to come, right here in this chair, in front of his three best friends. The realisation sinks in a little. Oh, _fuck_ , he’s actually going to–

The orgasm tears through him, makes his fingers lose their grip on the camera and feet scrape along the ground as his legs seize up. He presses his eyes closed in terror of this daemon orgasm currently possessing him, balls feeling like they’re on fire – a good kind of fire but _still_ – as he comes in his pants, and keeps coming, porno-levels of come, and oh sweet gods when will it end? It does end, eventually, and he’s breathless, boneless, exhausted, feeling like he’s spent the last hour sparring with half a dozen Gladios. His eyes are wet. He’s got actual tears running down his cheeks.

His dick is still hard. Prompto doesn’t even try to hide his moan, this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Without having to even open his eyes, Prompto knows, without doubt, that everyone heard him. He wants to sink right into the ground. He wants a zuu to come swooping out of the sky, snatch him in its talons and swallow him whole. Maybe tear him apart a little bit first. When, after a while, neither of these things happen, he manages to look up.

Gladio is crouching in front of him, still fucking shirtless, his expression one of open concern. It doesn’t do anything to detract from how devastatingly handsome he is, backlit against the campfire. Strong brow, chiselled jaw, amber eyes, those collar bones and pecs Prompto wants to run his hands all over, the abs – he only manages to look away because of a certain crushing humiliation that’s turning his face bright red, and also the dim awareness that Gladio can definitely tell that he’s looking in a very southerly direction to those gorgeous amber eyes. So he looks over at Ignis instead, who turns out not to be paying him any attention at all, because he’s kneeling in front of Noct, where Noct is curled with his arms over his stomach. No, Prompto realises in a sudden burst of clarity amidst the post-orgasm, why-is-my-dick-still-hard, I’m-so-embarrassed-I-want-to-die fog. Noct is curling with his arms over his dick.

Prompto watches, mesmerised, as Ignis lifts Noct's head with a gloved hand to his chin. Ignis’ gloves are fucking criminal. Prompto can’t decide if he wants to tear them off so he can suck on Ignis’ long, dexterous fingers, or have Ignis wrap that leather grip around his dick, stroke his thighs and squeeze his ass. Inside his pants, Prompto’s dick throbs. Noct’s eyes are hooded, dark, and beautiful, his mouth open like he’s ready to suck some serious cock. He licks his lower lip, just a quick flick of his tongue, red and visibly wet in the warm light of the fire. Breathing hard, he looks up at Ignis through his thick eyelashes.

Because Prompto is staring like a slack-jawed idiot, presumably, Gladio also turns to look. He’s just in time to see Noct grab Ignis by his shirt collar and yank him down into an open-mouthed, filthy hot kiss.

Ignis doesn’t really kiss back, and he breaks away after only a few seconds, rocking back on his heels. But his hands are tangled up in Noct’s hair as Noct leans forward to carry on kissing his neck and collarbones, and he groans – a broken, gravel rumble that goes straight to Prompto’s dick, and clearly Noct’s as well because Noct all but launches himself out of his chair and onto Ignis like a freaking coeurl, slamming them both to the ground. Then they’re kissing again, both of them, Ignis’ hands on Noct’s ass, one leg bent for Noct to straddle, grinding down on it like it’s his job (a job he actually wants, anyway. A job involving lots of fishing, or sleeping. Or both).

‘What the  _ fuck _ ,’ Gladio says, but Prompto hardly hears because he’s too busy watching Noct and Ignis make out like sex-crazed teenagers with the parents away for the first time in months. The noises of them kissing are wet, obscene, and Ignis keeps on moaning whenever they break apart. Noct buries his face in the crook of Ignis’ neck, and when his mouth isn’t busy savaging Ignis’ skin he starts making soft little noises, whimpers and hitched cries, and holy shit is Prompto’s dick happy as a gigantoad in mud. Without thinking Prompto presses the palm of his hand to it, stroking it through his trousers. It’s hot and damp which is honestly kinda gross if he thinks about it, only he’s not thinking about it, he’s thinking about Noct and Ignis on the floor in front of him. Gods, he feels like he’s made up of electricity, sparks running through every nerve, and if he dies right now of a heart-attack then it’ll be totally worth it.

Noct curls up, back arching; one of his hands is on Ignis’ shoulder, the other between his own legs. He shudders with his whole body as he orgasms, muffling his wordless, strained-to-breaking-point shout in Ignis’ chest. Ignis holds Noct like he’s about to shake apart, and Noct clings right back – or at least tries to, pawing uselessly at Ignis’ shirt around his shoulders and chest. Prompto can honest-to-fuck feel saliva pool in his mouth as the sight of Noct come completely undone: hips jerking, trembling, face flushed, hair mussed up. He’s sobbing by the time it’s over, gasping for breath, and he still manages to shuffle down and press his open mouth against the taut skin of Ignis’ stomach, where his shirt had got rucked up.

It’s not really a conscious thought that drives Prompto off his chair – and not even to his feet, he godsdamn  _ crawls _ to Noct and Ignis – but it feels like a good idea. As it turns out it is a good idea, a really good idea, because this close he can see how Noct’s hands are fumbling as he undoes Ignis’ belt, and the way Ignis’ neck has teeth-marks and love-bites all over it, and exactly how Ignis’ face looks when he cries out as Noct swallows down his dick, all the way.

He really wants to watch, but then, he also really wants some of that action. Prompto leans down and kisses Ignis on his open mouth, and is rewarded with a hand at the back of his head, running down to his neck, and oh fuck it all, that smooth leather on his skin makes Prompto grab at his own dick, fumbling with his fly and  _ finally _ releasing it from its sad underwear jail. He can’t stop himself from thrusting into his own hand, Ignis’ mouth wet and hot and wonderful, and Prompto wonders if he’d be able to taste Noct on him, but it’s not a very coherent thought because at that moment Ignis decides to knock Prompto’s hand away from his dick and replace it with his own.

Prompto doesn’t scream, but the noise he makes is not very dignified either. His mouth falls away from Ignis’, utterly uncoordinated – he’s overstimulated; he shouldn’t even be hard bare minutes after last time, yet here he is, thrusting uncontrollably into Ignis’ hand and his whole body alight with nerves like sparking live wires. ‘Yes,’ he realises he’s saying, begging, and he can’t stop. Not that he wants to. ‘Yes, yes, please, oh fuck yes, yes–’

It really should be embarrassing but frankly he doesn’t care. He’s hyper-sensitive to the rock beneath his hands and knees, the clothes rubbing against his skin, the air on the back of his neck, Ignis’ skin, hot under his lips and tongue, and Ignis’ leather-clad hand on his dick, squeezing and pulling, inelegant yet mind-blowingly hot. He’s never been so turned on in his life. He thinks if he was any more turned on his organs would probably all fail from the overload, and dick start hemorrhaging everywhere. He feels like clockwork that’s been wound way too far – half wanting to pull away because he’s actually kind of terrified of what’ll happen if it gets worse – better – whatever. Whether his feeble mind and body can deal with that kind of orgasm twice in a row is up for debate. He’s about to settle that debate, he realises distantly.

He doesn’t pull away, of course. Nothing short of three red giants can stop him now. Or maybe Ardyn. Maybe.

Ignis’ skin is flushed red and silky smooth and Prompto wants to taste it, all of it. He attempts to trace the path Noct took as he made his way down Ignis’ neck, but doesn’t stop at his collarbones; he undoes Ignis’ shirt, yanking at it until the buttons undo themselves more than anything else, and traces the new expanses down with his mouth. Ignis is making stifled noises right in his ear, wrung-out panting like someone out of a real high quality porno – no, better than that, way better, because honestly who knew Ignis was capable of sounding so filthy, so obscene? Only he is and it’s driving Prompto absolutely crazy. He gets to one of Ignis’ nipples and kisses it, sloppy, licking at it with broad swipes of his tongue, and Ignis’ noises change pitch, moving deeper into his throat, ragged groaning. His grip on Prompto’s dick jerks and tightens; Prompto has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand just to stop himself coming right there and then.

Then Ignis arches his back, muffling himself with his hand – the one not curled around Prompto’s dick, so that’s all right – and Prompto remembers the existence of Noct as Noct lifts his head from between Ignis’ legs, licking his lips. He’s actually, literally licking his fucking lips, swallowing, mouth wide open like a motherfucking porn star, chest heaving, breathing so very audible. Prompto’s brain short-circuits a bit there. It is definitely not helped by the fact that Ignis’ leather-clad hand tightens its grip on his dick and begins moving in earnest.

Noct leans over Ignis to grab Prompto by the back of his neck and pull him in to kiss, hand joining Ignis’ on Prompto’s dick, and Prompto experiences what it feels like to have his wildest, filthiest dreams become vanilla in the face of reality. He comes a second time, hard enough he thinks he blacks out for the entirety of it, because when he manages to scrape his brain together he’s sitting on his heels, head spinning and absently wiping a bit of drool from his chin. He doesn’t know whose drool it is. 

Impossibly, his cock throbs at the thought.

A little way away, Gladio makes a sound. It’s a strangled sort of sound. It occurs to Prompto, in the small part of his rational brain that’s still online, that having hot, totally spontaneous threesome sex on the ground with two of your best friends while the third friend watches is not really something people do. Not in real life, anyway. He looks over.

Gladio’s expression is one of open-mouthed, abject horror. Prompto begins to get a decidedly awful feeling in his gut; then his eyes, the treasonous bastards, skim down. Oh.  _ Oh. _ Gladio catches where he’s staring at, flushes hard, and covers his own raging boner with both hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Before anyone can do anything, Ignis sits up. ‘We need to talk,’ he says, and the effect is somewhat ruined by how husky his voice is. Yep, Prompto thinks. That’s definitely the voice of someone who’s had their brain fucked right out of them and only just got it back. Ignis’ glasses are all askew and his hair more ruffled than Prompto’s ever seen it. He really wants to run his hands through it, push him down onto his back and ride him until he’s begging–

‘So,’ Gladio says, cutting right through that little fantasy. ‘What just happened?’

Huh. What did just happen? Prompto’s dick is valiantly half-hard, and he shivers at the touch of his own fingers as he tucks it back into his pants. It doesn’t like that. It’s tight and warm in there, but not nearly as tight and warm as Noct’s mouth would be, and whoops no that’s not a line of thought conducive to conversation. Not this conversation, anyway.

‘It feels,’ Ignis says, with as much dignity as he can muster, which is to say very little at all, ‘like a status effect. Given that it’s affected all four of us at the same time I can’t think of what else it might be.’

‘And you’re just…’ Gladio makes a gesture with one hand, the other still trying to cover the tent in those glorious leather trousers. Prompto wants to lick them all over. ‘Going to go with it.’

‘Well, yeah.’ Noct’s voice is hoarse. ‘So get over here already.’

Honest and to the point. Prompto really can’t see why Ignis keeps moaning about Noct’s diplomacy skills in all those boring meetings and debates. Clearly Noct is a natural at persuasion, because already Gladio’s expression is torn. So on one hand he looks pretty damn terrified of Noct, who’s still kneeling on the floor with his dick out – his very hard, beautiful dick. But on the other hand, Gladio’s face is flushed red and his trousers are way too tight, and is that hunger Prompto spies in his oh-so handsome face? Yes, yes it is, because Gladio is coming closer, skirting the fire.

‘No.’ Ignis’ voice breaks through the sexual tension like a fat dualhorn through ice. Everyone looks at him.

Ignis takes off his glasses and tucks them in his shirt pocket, and shrugs out of his shirt. ‘The tent,’ he says.

Prompto’s never got into that tent faster. And he’d never got out of his clothes faster, either, not even that time when he’d walked right into a spiderweb covered in hundreds of fat, gross spiders.

Right now is the exact opposite of hundreds of spiders, because he’s somehow – he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t care – found himself sitting in Gladio’s lap, wearing only his briefs, grinding his ass down against Gladio’s poor, leather-restricted dick. Gladio has his hands – has his hands always been this big? – on his waist, legs pinning down Prompto’s legs, and he’s kissing the side of Prompto’s neck with hot, sloppy kisses. The muscles in his arms and abs and legs and frankly everywhere, Gladio is _built_ , Prompto knows that but he didn’t _know_ it until now, surround him and hold him in place. The touch of skin on skin is like fire, scalding hot, sweat-slicked. He can barely think with so much of his brain overflowing with raw sensory input, coming in from every inch of his body; he’s never wanted to be anywhere else. Being anywhere else is overrated. One of Gladio’s hands slip into his underwear and Prompto bucks up against it, distantly aware he’s making pathetic noises but stopping is definitely, totally, physically impossible.

Gladio tugs him out of his underwear but then moves his hands to grab onto Prompto’s wrists instead, holding them down, leaving his dick more sad and neglected then those dogs in the adoption ads Prompto definitely doesn’t cry over when he’s home alone. Prompto struggles but it’s like struggling against a brick wall, and fuck Gladio, seriously, fuck him. Metaphorically but also literally. Gladio’s mouth against his skin is actual torture, definitely crimes against humanity. He wouldn’t have pegged Gladio for a sadist but apparently sadist he is. Prompto is panting, wriggling his hips, and yeah that’s exactly what Gladio wants, so it’s lucky for him that his dick under Prompto’s ass is more motivation than spite.

Prompto is a generous, compassionate soul, clearly, start handing out the fucking medals. And when he grinds down on Gladio, Gladio growls into his neck, a groan like an earthquake rumble, like an animal, and it vibrates through Prompto’s chest right down his bones to his dick. So that’s all right.

It also doesn’t hurt that this position also gives a very good view of Noct and Ignis, who are definitely more on the ball than him and Gladio – both of them are butt naked. Probably Ignis’ doing, the proactive bastard. Ignis is on his back and Noct on top of him, gripping both their dicks on one hand and yanking at them. Ignis’ back is arched, his hands sliding up and down Noct’s body, though to be honest, mostly on his ass. They’re kissing, panting into each other’s open mouths, rocking together as they both thrust into Noct’s hand.

Prompto doesn’t quite know how he hadn’t noticed them before, because yes, fine, he was distracted, but the sight and sounds of them not even two feet away is fucking indecent. But then again, watching them, Prompto changes his mind – they’re not indecent. The curve of Noct’s spine is feline as he moves, his free hand tangled up in Ignis’ hair, holding him in place. Ignis looks younger without his glasses, flat on the floor, breathing out Noct’s name like it’s something sacred. Prompto isn’t even jealous. They’re like a work of art, fitting together, moving together, muscles rippling beneath flawless, sweaty skin. A downright filthy work of art, but still art. They belong in those high-brow art galleries where they hand out champagne to visitors and not just that Prompto wouldn’t be allowed in, Prompto would probably be enough to get Noct not allowed in if they came together. Not that they’d be together, since Noct would be the centrepiece of art already inside, but okay, he needs to stop this metaphor before it gets way out of hand.

Maybe Gladio notices that he’s distracted, because his hand is on Prompto’s dick again, thumb tracing just lightly over the head. Prompto can’t help but shiver and whine, and with his now free hand grab onto Gladio’s hand, making it squeeze tighter. And wow, right, that’s definitely his moment of romanticism over, because Gladio is lifting him effortlessly, holding him close one-handed while the other hand fumbles with his own trousers and underwear and yanks them down and off, kicking them into the dark abyss of the back of the tent. Then he’d rubbing his dick against Prompto’s ass, and even through the fabric of his briefs Prompto can tell instantly that it’s thick and hot and hard and massive and really, everything he likes in a dick.

Prompto’s face is burning up, fever-hot; he’s sweating and panting as he kneels, grinding back utterly shamelessly against Gladio. He wants that dick. Really, _really_ wants it. His hands are shaky and weak. His whole body feels weak, and it’s all that he can to do cling onto Gladio’s arm around his stomach and make very embarrassing noises when Gladio’s dick pushes between his thighs, wet with sweat and precome, and starts thrusting. It’s about then that Prompto decides that Gladio’s body should be studied by science because it can’t be biologically possible, being a veritable mountain of heated iron moulded into perfection. His arm holds Prompto in place and Prompto has never been more aware of how easily Gladio can snap him like a twig. He can feel the muscles in Gladio’s thighs and stomach tremble, shivering as he thrusts, pubic hair brushing Prompto’s upper thighs and ass, balls nudging his lower thighs with each snap of Gladio’s hips. Gladio’s dick between his thighs is an inescapable presence, hard and hot, and the feeling of it against his skin is like a knife in his guts, if knives felt mind-blowingly fucking amazing.

Prompto clenches his legs tighter together, squeezing Gladio’s dick between them, wanting more and more of that feeling and the friction of it against him; it only takes a few more seconds before Gladio shouts and comes all over the back of Prompto’s thighs.

It’s almost disappointing, how quickly it’s over, until he realises that Gladio’s dick is right there again, still hard, and Gladio is panting and growling like a behemoth in his ear.

Arm still holding Prompto in place, Gladio sits down on his heels, and Prompto jerks when he reaches around and grasps his poor, overworked dick. His grip around it, thumb over the slit and the strokes, even so soft and slow, are approaching painful. The heat and pleasure still envelop him like his brain is hotwired, and Prompto isn’t sure if he wants to beg Gladio to stop or carry on. The mixed messages cancel each other out, apparently, and all Prompto can manage is a broken whine, clinging on like Gladio’s arm is all that’s stopping him falling down into the void. He can feel Gladio’s growl through his back, echo around inside his ribcage, up into his head and down to his hips until his whole body is reverberating with it.

He comes a third time, agonising, and he’s biting his lip and shaking with tears. Gladio holds him in his soft iron grip until his heart calms a little and he stops trembling.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Prompto catches himself thinking that Gladio’s self-control must be some kind of superpower, given his hard-on pressing against Prompto’s ass but Gladio making no move whatsoever, Prompto figures he’s recovered enough. Prompto starts to wriggle and it’s only because Gladio loosens his grip that Prompto can shift around until they’re face to face, then slip down so it’s face to massive dick. And wow. Wow. Because maybe it’s because it’s only inches from his eyes but Prompto doesn’t think so, Prompto is pretty damn sure it’s just a really fucking amazing, massive dick. And did he mention that it’s massive? It’s thick and red and leaking precome, and until now Prompto would have said dicks like that are all photoshopped.

Fuck Gladio, does he really have to be a perfect, rippling muscle, super manly man in every damn way? Because that really isn’t fair.

 _Life isn’t fair,_ Ignis says occasionally. Must be because he’s seen Gladio’s dick before. If that’s the case, Prompto’s almost as jealous of him as he is of Gladio. Maybe even more, because it’s not like he’d know what to do with a body like Gladio’s if he had one. Probably spend all day in front of the mirror with his dick in his fist.

Speaking of which – Prompto grips Gladio’s dick around the base with both hands, squeezing just a little, and licks it across the head, curling his tongue around it. It’s salty and musky, soft like velvet but so hard beneath; Gladio is groaning out some unintelligible word, going limp and shaky. Prompto gives it another lick, slow, sweeping, and feels power-drunk for the way that it’s definitely him reducing Gladio to this.

Which is, of course, when Noct says, all hoarse and sexy, ‘Oh fuck off, stop hogging Gladio.’

He’s shoved to one side, but doesn’t let go, because like hell he’s going to give up that easily. He’s about to tell Noct to get lost and go find his own god of a man to suck off, but when he opens his eyes it’s not Noct but Ignis with his face pressed up against the other side of Gladio’s dick. Noct’s hand is on the back of his head, holding him there – not that Ignis needs to be held. His eyes are closed and his mouth slack, open wide, and he’s got his head tilted to suck on the length and base of Gladio’s dick like his life depends on it. Like Noct’s life depends on it, probably. It’s hot as all fuck. And he’s not obstructing Prompto from his spot at the head.

Hmm, if Gladio were a bit smaller then he might have been able to try kiss Ignis around him. Wanting Gladio to be smaller feels like blasphemy, so Prompto stops thinking about it, in case he offends someone and gets smited for being the least appreciative person ever. Not counting Noct with Ignis. That just goes without saying.

Prompto watches from the corner of his eye as Noct lets go of Ignis’ head and move around him to Gladio’s side, push him down onto his back with one hand on his chest. His lips crash down on Gladio’s lips, hungry. He’s gripping Gladio’s wrists, holding them above his head against the floor, and the desperate whine Gladio makes as he bucks up beneath them might just be Prompto’s new favourite ever sound.

(All right, tied favourite. Baby chocobos are perfect in every way and Prompto will fight anyone who says otherwise, even if he doesn’t want to think of them right now at this exact, sweaty moment.)

His jaw is aching slightly. His chin itches a little with the saliva and precome drying on it. How are such vaguely uncomfortable things now hotter than the godsdamn sun? Gladio’s groans are muffled and his hips tremble with the force of him holding himself down. Prompto wants to break that self control. He wants to drive Gladio fucking crazy. He takes the Gladio’s dick in his mouth and dips his head until the tip is brushing his soft palate, then some more, until he’s nudging his gag reflex. Then he swallows, hard and deliberate, and Gladio’s groan breaks into another whine.

As he comes up for air and to make sure his balls aren’t going to explode with how turned on he is, it occurs to Prompto that this may be the last time he has this opportunity laid out for him (heh, _laid_ ). As much as the concept is a little distant and fuzzy, he thinks it’s probably best not to spend it all focused on one thing, even if that one thing is as fucking awesome as Gladio’s dick. So with a tinge of regret Prompto leaves Gladio’s dick to Ignis and moves on to other pastures. Other pastures being Gladio’s abs and pecs and he bites down gently on one of Gladio’s nipples to see if it’s as sensitive as Ignis’. As it turns out, yes, yes it is. Gladio arches beneath him and Prompto licks the nipple with the tip of his tongue, quick little flicks back and forth as his hands run over Gladio’s sweaty, overheating body. It’s like running his hand over godsdamned rocks, if said rocks are sculpted in particularly sexy planes and forms, and covered in something hot and sweaty and smooth, and rippling beneath him in way that makes it impossible to forget just how powerful Gladio is, the strength he’s holding back and how he’s on his back and submitting to the three of them. So, nothing at all like rocks.

Prompto reaches for his own dick without thinking, and gasps and flinches at the touch because holy shit is it hypersensitive, having spent the last however long – just how long has it been? He honestly has no idea. Time has no meaning when you’re having insane status effect orgies apparently – with a single, sustained, raging boner. Not to mention the three orgasms, one after the other.

Is it even physically possible? Is he going to have to do the ultimate walk of shame tomorrow morning, out the tent and all the way to the nearest doctor?

Gladio muffles his shout into Noct’s mouth as Ignis swallows him down all the way, head bobbing. Is that his imagination or can he really see Gladio’s dick distend Ignis’ throat? Prompto watches for a second, dazed.

Go big or go home, right?

Prompto dips his head, kissing around Gladio’s nipple, then up to his collarbones, scraping at them with his teeth, and if he’s a little rough then it’s hard to do all that when he’s also jerking himself off, okay. His hips jolt and thrust into his hand entirely beyond his control, throwing his balance, and he is panting hard and making stuttering noises against Gladio’s skin as he moved down to his navel, licking and kissing the dip of his belly button. The gentle touch of his fingers against his dick is electric, burning and freezing at the same time but so fucking good, and with his free hand he’s grasping helplessly at the floor of the tent. His whole body tenses. Is this it? Is this the tragic end of Prompto Argentum? The tightness of impending orgasm spreads, crawls up his belly, into his spine, paralyses his legs and he can barely move any more, he’s so wound up and teetering at the edge–

Gladio’s hips rock up, knocking Prompto back far enough he loses his balance and falls on his ass. He might’ve complained except he doesn’t really have the breath to, and anyway this way he’s got a front row seat to the Gladio Getting Pinned Down and Ravished Show. Ignis, between Gladio’s legs, has one hand holding Gladio’s balls, pulling at them gently in time with his mouth dragging upwards, and the other hand on Gladio’s hip, arm pressing down across his body to stop him from thrusting up. Noct’s still got Gladio’s arms above his head in one hand, and still kissing him, and he’s pinching Gladio’s nipple in the other, rolling the hard nub between his fingers.

It doesn’t take long before Gladio comes, knees bent and legs gripping Ignis around the waist to hold him in place. It’s only surprising, Prompto thinks, that Gladio has lasted as long as he has. That man has serious stamina.

Noct leans back just in time not to get shoved away as Gladio sits up; Ignis is too slow and Gladio pushes him off his dick – yup, still hard – with a hand to his face. Prompto thinks about saying something about how that’s not very polite, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and he’s not entirely sure he can manage it.

‘Why the fuck am I still hard,’ Gladio says, a little desperately, and it’s immensely gratifying to see him pant, out of breath. Son of a bitch is never out of breath. ‘What the fuck kind of status effect is this, anyway? Where’d it come from?’

It’s a good question, and one Prompto is neither qualified nor in the right state of mind to answer. His brain is mush. He takes his hand away from his dick, partly because his heart is racing and limbs twitchy, and partly because even now it’ll be kinda weird to jerk off while everyone is sitting around and talking. Even if they all do have boners.

There’s a brief silence. ‘It’s hard to say,’ Ignis says, at the same time as Noct: ‘It must’ve been the food, right?’

Everyone looks at Ignis, and if he weren’t already red from his stupid high cheekbones all the way down to his dick, Prompto is sure he’d be blushing.

‘Well, that is–’ Ignis says. ‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Noct says. ‘What else could it be? This has got to be that new recipe you thought up this morning.’

‘It could be that daemon we fought – the one we didn’t recognise,’ Ignis says. He looks so embarrassed, and with his hair ruffled, missing his glasses – missing all his clothes – he looks like a whole other person. An _amazingly fuckable_ whole other person, just begging to be shoved on his back and have all the filthy things done to him. Prompto’s mind is hazily running through the possibilities of these filthy things, starting with putting those perfect lips to good use, and is interrupted by Noct’s snort.

‘That was like a week ago. Admit it, you did this.’

When Ignis fails to admit it, Gladio sits up onto his heels. ‘Right, so,’ he says, voice low and rough and the kind of sexy they use in the really high end car ads. ‘Any idea when it’s going to wear off? Because if my dick falls off, I’m not gonna be happy.’

‘It won’t fall off,’ Ignis says, but even Prompto notices how he avoided the question.

‘Good to know,’ Gladio says. He shifts, the lines of his muscles all rippling, lit up from the torches inside and fire still burning outside. ‘And since it’s your fault, Iggy, I think you can do the honours of helping us through it.’

Ignis' eyes are wide, pupils massive, and his mouth falls open as if he’s about to say something but decides against it last second.

‘I second that,’ Noct says, lazily. ‘Prompto?’

‘Y-yes!’ Prompto blurts out, not expecting it.

The smile on Gladio’s face would be terrifying if Prompto’s dick didn’t decide for him that it was mind-blowingly hot instead.

‘So that’s decided,’ Gladio says. ‘Come on, Iggy, turn around for us. Face down, ass in the air.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got some rimming in this one – skip to 'Apparently Noct doesn’t like being ignored' if you want to avoid it!

Ignis shivers and spreads his legs a little wider as Gladio’s lips brush his ass. Prompto knows because he’s watching closely – _real_ closely – but also because he’s got his hand on the small of Ignis' back, stroking the curved slope of it down to his neck. Ignis has his face pressed to his forearms, which are braced flat against the floor, and he’s muffling himself but not very well. Prompto can feel the tremble and strain as Ignis arches his back down just that bit further, the hitch as Noct guides Gladio’s head and Gladio licks his way up from Ignis’ balls to – and oh shit, Prompto thinks, no pun intended, but is he actually gonna–

Gladio is gonna, Noct’s fingers still tangled in his hair. Prompto swallows. He’d never been into it before, personally, but Ignis' shoulders are trembling and his back moving in little, uneven jerks as he breathes, his hips twitching like he’s torn between thrusting forward, neglected dick brushing against his stomach, and thrusting back into Gladio. He’s making soft noises, breathy gasps and low moans that Prompto can feel in his hand still on Ignis’ neck.

The noise Gladio is making, beyond the deep hum rumbling in his chest like one of Titan’s earthquakes, is wet, a slow lapping and sucking and okay, if this is going to give Prompto a confused whyboner then it’s his moral duty to be as absolutely informed on it as possible. So he can make an informed decision. Yeah. That’s it. He lets go of Ignis’ neck and shuffles up on his knees to get a better look, but by the time he reaches Gladio, Noct grabs him and hauls him in like he's that huge-ass fish he got real excited about the other day – though not the kind of excited he is about Prompto. Prompto hopes not, anyway. They'd eaten that thing.

Which is to say, Noct hauls him in and kisses him, hard and demanding and damn it's good – hot and crushing and Prompto knows he came up here for a reason but fuck if he can think of it when Noct's lips are pressed against his, his tongue is wet and soft in Prompto's mouth, and his teeth nipping and tugging on his lower lip. They break apart for air and Prompto feels like he's been liquified and half frozen into a slush, then sort of moulded back together but not very well, and if his metaphors are suffering then it’s probably because of the aforementioned liquefaction. Or Noct’s hand on his ass. He's dizzy, his head is hot and not doing well on the thinking front; he wants to lean into Noct, skin on skin, and never let go.

Noct's hands roam up his chest, fingertips tracing the outlines of his abs and pecs and Prompto shivers as he brushes over his nipples. Noct must have felt it, because he touches the pad of his thumb to Prompto’s nipple, harder this time, rolling it as he presses down. Prompto whines, just a little. He feels drunk, heady. He wants Noct to swallow him down whole.

To one side, Ignis makes a sobbing noise. Prompto finally remembers what he'd came up here for and turns, but his hands stay on Noct's waist.

It's not actually all that easy to see. The new vantage point doesn't exactly hand out massive revelations. Some small part of Prompto's brain, the photographer part that never quite shuts off, says that the lighting is definitely better on the other side. And standing and looking over Gladio's shoulder at a slight angle would probably be better. The photographer part is suddenly remembering arty porn shots and contemplating whether Ignis is flexible enough to recreate them (of course he is, the I’m-not-creeping-on-my-friends-it’s-studying-battle-stances part says. Ignis is flexible enough for _anything_ ).

He can still see that Gladio isn't just licking, or not any more. He's pressing the tip of his tongue into Ignis, circling the ring of muscle and pushing in and out in turns. His hands are on Ignis' ass, holding him open and accessible. Ignis is trembling. Gladio lifts his chin a bit and sucks, and Prompto thinks he's doing something with his teeth but it's hard to tell, and Ignis straight up cries into his arms, a short, desperate sound as his hips jerk.

Apparently Noct doesn’t like being ignored, because suddenly, without warning, he bites Prompto's neck. The sudden pain – not much pain, he's not that much of a weenie – makes Prompto jump and squeak, and why can't he sound as sexy as Ignis does, dammit? But Noct is sucking the place he bit, hard enough to definitely leave a mark where none of Prompto's clothes are going to be able to hide it, and does Prompto care? No, Prompto decides he gives absolutely zero fucks, no fucks to be found here, not even in his emergency fuck pocket. He groans and his hips thrust a bit because like his dick is going to let him forget about it, even after this long. And if Noct wants attention, then hell, he’s got it.

Well, and Gladio and Ignis too. Prompto can multitask, because Gladio is sitting up. His lips are red and wet and he's still breathing hard. He puts his hand on his dick, shivers a little, and guides himself to Ignis' ass.

He pushes in with warning or ceremony, sliding in and forcing Ignis open, and yeah so Prompto wants that dick but he doesn't want it _in_ him, that's really not the same thing, because he also wants to be able to walk for the rest of his life, thank you very much. And it's actually a little disappointing because for all his coeurl imitations earlier Ignis is actually silent, and it's Gladio grunting a little as he rocks his hips and inches in. And in. And in, because Prompto isn't sure he's mentioned this before but Gladio is a freaking giant and not just in the height or muscle department.

Noct leaves off mauling Prompto's neck to watch also, and he's got his hand loose around his dick, managing to shift without Prompto realising it so he can grasp Prompto's dick in the same hand, and Prompto swears he will never not appreciate having his heart work like it should do, just normal blood pumping stuff, because he is one hundred percent certain he came an inch of a heart attack right there. There’s a skip in his pulse, a tremor like a hiccup. His inhale is cut short, his lungs forget how to function, and he is pretty sure his life flashes before his eyes. Then Noct lets go, which, okay, heart attack or not, Prompto didn't actually want him to stop. So he follows Noct as Noct moves to sit at Ignis' head, lifts him up with a hand on his chin, and guides Ignis' mouth onto his dick.

'Hey,' Prompto says, hoarsely, because he's kinda feeling a bit left out here, and no way is he confident enough to just... do things to people like Noct seems to be. Luckily Noct takes matters into his own hands – hand, singular – and proves himself to be a wise and generous king by grabbing Prompto's dick. It’s as much as Prompto can do just sit there and take it. His limbs want to jerk about like an electrocuted starfish and Prompto is hardly the ultimate expert on swarve sexiness, but he’s fairly confident it’s not that. Instead he bites his lip and tilts back his head, forcing himself to stay still. It’s possibly the hardest thing he’s ever done, right up there with losing all that weight as a kid and not smuggling a chocobo chick out of Wiz’ post last week.

Noct’s hand is sloppy, not moving smoothly at all, all jerks and uneven movements but Prompto thinks he can probably forgive it, given how Noct is deep in Ignis' throat, with Ignis currently being pounded by Gladio in his ass, hard and steady, forcing him forwards onto Noct’s dick with each thrust. If it weren’t for Gladio holding Ignis' hips, Prompto isn’t entirely sure Ignis would still be upright. At least, as upright as you can be, on your knees and with your face in someone else’s lap.

 _I was right_ , Prompto thinks, a little dizzily. Ignis’ perfect lips do look better wrapped around a dick. Even if it isn’t Prompto’s dick. Prompto had kind of thought Ignis would be fussy and neat even sucking cock, but he’s not, at all. He’s deepthroating (how the fuck is he even breathing?), there’s a whole fuck ton of saliva, and wet, sloppy noises. He’s barely even moving his own head – Gladio’s hips are doing the thrusting for him, moving him bodily, pushing him forward and hands on his hips jerking him back. Prompto puts his own hand on the back of Ignis’ head – just gently, not pushing him down or anything, and beneath him Ignis groans deep in his throat.

Noct twitches, then bites his lower lip and whines and _gods_ does that sound do things to him. Sexy, sexy things. Prompto has to let go on Ignis to prop himself up with both arms, because there’s no way he’s staying upright otherwise. His heart is pounding and he closes his eyes, but only briefly, because how else will he see Ignis getting spitroasted? When is he going to get this opportunity again? Noct’s hand tightens, fractionally, and in the end that’s all it takes to send him over the edge.

It’s a wash of regret that swallows him, as he comes – or, not regret, but something sad he doesn’t recognise the source of, hard and tight in his chest, and no, no, this is not how he wants to end this. He isn’t given the choice: the orgasm is ripped out of him, pulling his insides like they’re being yanked on a string. Noct’s hand is still on his dick, milking out the last agonising drop, and when it’s over it’s only abstractedly that he realises he’s finally, _finally_ , lost his hard-on. It’s still all he can do to sob for breath and blink back the way his eyes are stinging, and watch Noct tug Ignis off his dick to offer him the hand he caught Prompto’s come on. Ignis licks it clean.

His body is loose, disjointed, like someone took him apart and didn’t bother to screw his joints on tight when they put him back together. Where’d the sadness come from? Now Noct isn’t touching him any more, both hands clutching Ignis’ hair, he feels adrift. He’s on the outside, looking in. He wants to lie down and cover his face, but he can’t stop watching. He wants to watch forever.

Not that Ignis will be very happy being rammed by Gladio for the rest of all eternity, but that’s besides the point.

It’s probably not surprising his body aches like he’s just made it out of a days-long dungeon crawl, except he really hasn’t felt it until now. He wonders if that’s contributing to the curling misery in his guts. It feels like he’s got whiplash from how fast his mood changed. When Gladio leans forward to adjust his angle, grabbing Ignis’ arms and using them to tug him back, Prompto can’t even appreciate it. Ignis has red fingerprints on his hips, little marks where Gladio had dug his short nails in. That’ll definitely bruise.

Maybe he should take photos, so he can appreciate it later. Arty nudes. Not arty nudes. No, that’s a stupid idea. There’s no way the others will want photos to remind them this happened. This whole thing is one big mistake, after all. Why else would anyone else want it (want him), if not through accidental, mind-altering status effect?

Maybe in the morning he’ll realise he doesn’t want it either.

The thought doesn’t make it any better. It makes it worse.

Noct reaches for him as he comes, but Prompto doesn’t lean into him, and the end result is a little bit of awkward grabbing before Noct gives up to smother himself with his forearms as he bucks up, fucking Ignis’ mouth in sloppy, jerky thrusts. Then, gasping to catch his breath, Noct shuffles back. His dick leaves Ignis’ mouth with a wet sound. He leaves a lingering touch on the back of Ignis’ neck, and flops over.

His eyes are closed. Is he really going to go to sleep now, with Gladio and Ignis right there, still pounding away? Prompto catches himself. What a stupid question. This is Noct; of course he is.

Noct then proceeds to defy all expectations by opening his eyes. ‘Hey,’ he says, and reaches out an arm, and if Prompto were a stronger man – Gladio strength – he’d still not be able to resist. He lets Noct pull him down and wrap his arms around him, hooking one leg over his, and Prompto can’t even bring himself to care that he can’t see Ignis and Gladio so well at this angle.

No, wait, that last part is a lie. Noct makes a grumpy noise as Prompto shuffles a bit so he can get into a good position to watch, but whatever. There are loads of things he’ll do for love, but missing out on this view is not one of them.

(Fuck, _fuck_. Prompto tries to tell himself _things he’ll do for love_ is a saying, guys use it about other guys all the time, but even he knows he’s kidding himself. Gods fucking damn.)

And if it’s the last time he gets to see this – this being Gladio letting go of one of Ignis’ arms so Ignis can jack himself off – and if it’s treated like a terrible, terrible mistake in the morning, then he’ll just have to deal with it.

He’s not crying when he sees Ignis orgasm, catching his come in his hand and sobbing out an exhausted sound that’s jolted in rhythm with Gladio’s thrusts, and if he is it’s because his eyes are watering in sympathy with his overworked dick. And he definitely doesn’t sniffle when no one can hear him over Ignis moaning, as Gladio comes but then grits his teeth and keeps going.

Fuck, Gladio is a machine, Prompto thinks, because even overwhelming self-pity can’t stifle awareness of Gladio’s dick. Iggy’s going to be sore tomorrow.

Poor/lucky guy, delete as appropriate.

At some point – Prompto is still a little fuzzy on the time front – Gladio flips Ignis onto his back and fucks him with his knees hooked over his broad shoulders. It’s a good thing they’re in a tent and not a caravan, because Prompto is pretty sure only Ignis and solid rock are strong enough to withstand this kind of pounding. He’s not entirely sure how long it takes after that before Gladio comes with a hoarse shout, hips jerking shallowly as he chases the last, hot fragments of orgasm, before he pulls out and crashes over like a felled behemoth. Ignis slumps down where he is, utterly boneless, and Noct is breathing into Prompto’s shoulder, soft, slow puffs of air. If Prompto were to stretch out his arm he could touch Ignis’ hand where it’s still clutching the bedroll, but he doesn’t. Too tired. Sex is meant to be good exercise, right? He probably burnt a whole fuck ton of calories. He should have done this more back when he was trying to lose weight.

Not that he’d had anyone to do this with (not that he has anyone now – not beyond freak accidents). And he’d kinda been too young. Really too young. Okay, yeah, he should absolutely not have done this back then. Erase that thought.

After a minute or two Ignis rolls over and gets to his knees gingerly. He’s not looking at Prompto – he’s checking Noct over with a hand at his forehead, brushing the hair from his face, but Prompto feels himself flush with self-consciousness anyway. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep, because a) that’ll definitely fool anyone, especially Ignis, and b) that’s what adults do when faced with difficult situations, right?

When Prompto opens his eyes again Ignis is gone, probably lying down on the other side of Noct. He can just about see Gladio, down by his feet. If he concentrates he can pick out the individual sounds of them all breathing, slow now, worn out and snoring a bit. Prompto takes a moment to wonder if he ought to close the tent door in case bugs fly in or some innocent newcomer arrives at the haven and gets an eyeful. It’s a bit too late for people to arrive but better safe than sorry and all that, etc etc.

Noct’s arms around him don’t feel like they’re going to let up any time soon, and Prompto’s not gonna wriggle out of them until he absolutely has to. Tent on fire levels of absolutely has to. And an open tent means escaping when things inevitably go tits up will be that much easier, but he’s going to ignore that for now. Guess he’ll have to resign himself to staying where he is. Such a tragedy.

And he won’t think about the morning until it comes.


	6. Chapter 6

Prompto wakes up to that sore but pleasant feeling of a particularly long run. It takes a couple of seconds for memory to reassert itself.

He jerks into sitting like cartoons people waking from nightmares, except in this instance his dream had been okay but real life? Really not okay. Already a kind of panicky misery is churning up his guts, making his heart beat in his throat like a little trapped bird. The blanket that had been covering him falls to his lap; beside him, Noct makes a grumbling noise in his sleep. Both he and Gladio are similarly draped in blankets; Ignis is nowhere to be seen.

The tent smells like sex. Really kind of stinks of it. And he’s sticky and a bit crusty and gross and yes, yes that is in fact dried come on his legs. Prompto dreads to think of what it’d smell like if the tent door had been zipped up all night; though, maybe that way he would have suffocated to death and then he wouldn’t have to deal with this. Maybe he can still suffocate himself with the pillow someone – okay, Ignis, who else would it have been but Ignis – had put under his head when he’d been asleep.

Maybe he can still sneak out of the tent, find the nearest body of water, and drown himself in it. Yeah, that sounds easier and more dignified than death by pillow. Anything, so long as he doesn’t have to see Noct and Gladio’s faces as they wake up and remember – regret – what happened last night. He doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t want to hear them talk about how weird and gross it’d been and how they’ll promise never to let anyone else hear of it. He knows he’s being melodramatic but his brain won’t stop telling him that drowning is a much, much better option. What if they’d noticed he’d been too into it? What if they realise that he’s had the hots for all of them for so long, now? What if that was too weird changed everything and he’ll have to leave?

Prompto gets dressed, as careful and quiet as possible, trying to ignore how much he needs a shower. He really wants a shower. Drowning involves water, right? There’s a small, tight knot of dread in the pit of his stomach, like he’s swallowed a cold iron ball that’s weighing down and tangling up all his insides. Melodrama or not, he’s not even sure he can just laugh it off as a horrible mistake. Or, he can, because he’ll have to, but… his gut is so tight with misery it’s almost like a physical pain. Or maybe he pulled something during all that sex. It’s hard to say.

Peering through the tent door, let down but not zipped, Prompto’s plan to run and drown himself immediately fails when he spots Ignis sitting at the edge of the haven. He’s facing away from the tent, but he glances over his shoulder, then turns back to watching the sun rise over the dry grass landscape. Something about the sight of him – sitting on the ground, awkward with his legs folded to one side, bare feet, no gloves – is indescribably sad, and Prompto can’t tell what.

Anyway, there’s no way Ignis will let him escape, and he doesn’t want to go back inside that tent either. He steps out of the tent and hesitates. Everything from last night, from the chairs to the stove still piled with dirty dishes, are exactly as they’d left them. Too bad, Prompto thinks, nothing else is.

‘Prompto,’ Ignis says, and bows his head. ‘I…’

There’s birdsong breaking the silence, but not much else. After a long time Ignis gets up, slowly, wincing as he does so (and there is definitely no voice in Prompto’s head saying: called it, because that would be inappropriate. Totally, wildly inappropriate. Even if it is true), and turns.

Prompto’s chest aches at the sight of him, and this time it’s definitely not because he pulled something. Ignis’ face is pale, drawn, and it takes Prompto a few seconds to land on the words _grief_ and _misery_ , because Ignis is calm and collected and sometimes annoyed and sometimes sad, in a calm, collected, private way, but he’s never _miserable_. And if he is he’s never miserable in front of anyone else, Prompto least of all.

But there it is. Ignis’ mouth is a straight line, way too carefully straight, and his eyes are tight, cast down to the floor. ‘Prompto,’ he says again, and Prompto wants to throw himself off a cliff just so he won’t have to hear what Ignis is about to say – only that’d be selfish, and he owes it to Ignis to hear him out even if what Ignis is about to say is probably going to break his heart.

Ignis take a long breath in. Here it is, Prompto thinks. Here’s the beginning of the end.

‘I want to apologise,’ Ignis says, and huh? Apologise? ‘I am truly sorry, Prompto, for what I did, both in preparing the meal and then failing to prevent… what happened afterwards. Although it was entirely accidental, I know intent means little when the practical result is… that is, whilst I would never have cooked what I did in the knowledge of what it would do, I am fully at fault all the same, and...’

He’s struggling, and watching him struggle is agonising, like watching a chocobo with a broken leg. Prompto is about to interrupt just because he can’t stand it any longer, when he realises, for the first time, that it is in fact Ignis’ fault. The thought strikes him like Noct throwing lightning spells about without bothering to warn anyone first. Obviously he knows it’d been the food, and Ignis had cooked the food, but it’s not like he’d done it knowingly. So to phrase it in terms of fault? Well, technically, if you absolutely had to point fingers.

And of course, Prompto thinks, Ignis absolutely would think in technicalities, and he absolutely would shoulder the blame. Then: oh. _Oh, shit_. Because drugging people and fucking them when they’re off their faces is a whole lot like rape, isn’t it?

‘I will – I will apply to you, and Noct and Gladio, for what you want me to do in terms of how we plan on progressing from here,’ Ignis says, like he’s some kind of criminal they’re all stuck with, and suddenly Prompto’s fears don’t seem all that important any more. ‘If you had any initial thoughts on the matter–’

‘I’m glad it happened,’ Prompto blurts, stepping forwards. ‘You didn’t mean to do it, so it’s hardly your fault. I mean, it’s not your fault at all. But I loved it. I don’t care it was a stupid status effect. You wouldn’t even believe how much I’ve wanted you guys, since like forever, and the only thing I regret is that none of you want _me_ – not without that thing. I actually really kinda love all of you.’ His throat tightens and voice goes all croaky and Prompto ploughs on because really, what can make this any worse than it already is? ‘So I mean,’ he says, and laughs, strangled, ‘if anything, I was the one taking advantage of you.’

There’s two spots of colour on Ignis’ cheeks. He’s finally looking up from the ground to meet Prompto’s eyes.

‘Prompto,’ he says, almost firmly. ‘Please don’t lie just to make me feel better.’

‘I’m not! C’mon, I wouldn’t lie about something like this.’

There’s a short pause before Ignis replies. ‘No, I suppose not.’

It’s kind of awkward, just them standing there looking at each other, immediately after what he said, but it’s Ignis who turns away first. He takes off his glasses and covers his eyes with one hand as he laughs, soft and a little breathless. ‘Well, that’s a third of the weight off my shoulders,’ he says. ‘I cannot say how glad I am to know you feel that way.’

‘What,’ Prompto says before he can stop himself, because foot-in-mouth is a terminal condition he suffers from. ‘Even the part about me wanting you since forever?’

Ignis pauses, still with his eyes covered, and Prompto’s stomach plummets. ‘While I feel,’ Ignis says, very carefully, ‘like the answer will not be conducive to my plea that the effects of my cooking were entirely accidental – which they were, I have to emphasise – yes. Yes, even that.’

There’s a beat of silence. Then another, then another. Ignis puts his glasses back on and waits, but he looks a whole less patient than he usually does. He adjusts his glasses and tugs at his shirt sleeves, putting his hands on his hips then immediately removing them. Prompto’s heart is racing. Why the hell does Ignis have to use such fancy words? Because he really, really doesn’t want to misinterpret this. ‘So,’ he says, eventually. ‘You’re saying you like me back? Like, you know, like-like?’

Ignis rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s rather embarrassing,’ he says, ‘but I seem to be in almost exactly the same boat as you are.’

The astrals descending from on high, riding chocobos and wearing moogle hats, couldn’t make Prompto gawk like the biggest ever loser any more than he’s doing right now. And there’s absolutely no way they could make him the tiniest bit as happy.

‘Can I kiss you?’ he says, and he didn’t think that through at all, but at this point thinking can go fuck itself. His heart is beating way too hard, but in a _good_ way, and his face hurts with how wide he’s grinning. He tries to stop but he can’t, at all. ‘I really, really want to kiss you. Please. I swear the status effect wore off hours ago. Look, I don’t even have a boner.’

Ignis takes a step towards Prompto, and Prompto makes the rest of the distance; Ignis puts his hands on Prompto’s waist, leaning in, but only to touch foreheads. ‘I still need to speak with Noct and Gladio,’ he says. ‘They are unlikely to be as happy with the situation as you are.’

Prompto doesn’t have an answer to that, so he grabs Ignis by the back of his head and mashes their faces together. It’s – it’s not really the same as last night, when he’d been more of a Prompto shaped vehicle for his joy-riding dick than an actual person, when everything had been hot and _fuck_ and good. It’s still nice. Ignis’ lips are soft and warm and there’s giddy joy like a bubble swelling in his chest; Prompto is grinning and grinning into Ignis’ mouth and still can’t stop even when it’s making it really hard to kiss at all, let alone well.

‘Gladio–’ Noct’s voice breaks them apart, but Ignis’ hands linger on his waist for a second longer than strictly necessary. ‘Get a stick! They’re still affected.’

‘Highness,’ Ignis turns to Noct, and Prompto really hates how his voice goes straight back to wavering, ashamed. ‘I–’

‘If you’re gonna apologise,’ Noct breaks in, ‘don’t. Fuck, it was a mistake, you didn’t do it on purpose, no one’s to blame, let’s get that part over and done with, right?'

‘Right,’ Gladio says, from behind Noct, and Prompto nods eagerly as he echoes the sentiment. Noct knows Ignis way too well. Not that it’s a bad thing. Definitely not here. And Ignis doesn’t have an answer to that, and good, because it was a stupid thing to think in the first place, that he’s to blame in a bad way. It’s probably the only stupid thought Ignis’ had since he was about seven. That and the idea that he might ever get Noct to eat his veggies.

Also that stinky tofu is food. Because it’s not. It’s just not food. It doesn’t matter what Ignis says, or anyone says, it’s not food and won’t be, ever.

Even with the fault thing cleared up, Noct’s got one foot out of the tent, looking like he wants to turn around and head straight back inside. Oh, right, he probably thinks he and Ignis are about to get it on again. Fair enough, with how he caught them. Noct’s blushing, staring at the floor to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. Prompto feels vaguely sorry for Gladio, who’s still stuck behind him in the tent, trying simultaneously to crouch to not hit his head on the ceiling, and peer over Noct’s shoulder. He looks kinda stupid like that.

‘You’re still affected, right?’ Noct says. ‘How come it wore off us and not you two? Do you, uh, want some more privacy?’

‘No, no.’ Ignis has the decency to sound at least a little abashed. ‘That is to say, ah, we’re not actually still affected.’

‘Oh,’ Noct says, very obviously for lack of anything else. He looks a little confused, and a little hurt, because there’s basically no one he’s closer to than Prompto and Ignis (and Gladio, but he doesn’t count right now, sorry Gladio). It’s probably fair that he’s feeling left out of the loop. Prompto would be, if he found two of them sucking unexpected face.

‘I was so glad he wasn’t disgusted by me, I just had to,’ Prompto blurts out. He’d meant it as a joke, to stop Noct feeling like he’d been lied to all this time, even by omission. Only fuck, it backfired, and now Noct is looking at him and Prompto feels like the saddest ever dweeb who’s spent the last however many years pining and thirsting in equal amounts, that he’d settle with someone feeling a generous case of not-actively-disgusted-by-you. Still, he’s riding the high of that kiss just now, like when he’d ridden a chocobo for the first time. He feels invincible, other than the dweebiness thing, and probably that’s too hardwired to be avoidable. He’s an invincible dweeb. His limbs thrum with energy that’s not, for once, nervous energy. And it’s not just chocobos he’s gonna be riding in the near future (and oh fuck, that thought, oh fuck–).

There’s a slight pause.

‘I wanna kiss all of you,’ he says.

Dead silence. Shit.

‘What he means is,’ Ignis says, and thank fuck, Prompto thinks, a decade of formal diplomacy lessons are useful for something after all, ‘the – entirely accidental – events of last night forced certain feelings, that were previously kept hidden, to light. Both Prompto and I have admitted to… a fondness for not just each other but for you and Gladio as well. That is, both of us, for both of you.’

They all stare at each other – or at least, they do when Gladio finally grabs Noct by the shoulders and pushes him forward and out of his way, so he can stand and not crouch in the tent like some gremlin.

‘I understand if–’ Ignis continues, but is cut off.

‘You mean I’ve been stopping myself jumping your bones _all this time,_ ’ Noct says, ‘for no reason?’

‘Wait, what,’ Prompto says. ‘Whose bones?’

Noct makes a wild, inarticulate gesture at everyone involved (and also things that aren’t involved, and Prompto is just going to assume Noct isn’t really including the Regalia, no matter how pretty she is). Gladio starts to laugh, a slow chuckle at first that turns belly-deep.

‘Laugh all you want, big guy,’ Noct says, and he is _so cute_ when he’s angry like this. ‘You haven’t been been cockblocking yourself–’

‘Oh yeah?’ Gladio says, as he spins Noct around, and kisses him.

A split-second passes, then Noct is kissing him back. Enthusiastically.

Ignis makes a noise behind one hand; it takes a second for Prompto to realising he’s stifling a laugh. Then there’s a giggle bubbling up in his own throat and he can’t hold it back. ‘Oh my god,’ he says, through it. ‘I can’t even tell if this is the best or the worst.’

‘The best,’ Ignis says, and even if he’s covering his mouth his eyes are still crinkled up in laughter, and they’re green and bright and Prompto thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. ‘Let’s go with the best, shall we?’

‘ _Definitely_ the best,’ Gladio says, breaking away from Noct just long enough to say it, before Noct drags him back down again. Prompto doesn’t even care that he’s ogling. If he had his camera on him, he’d take a photo. Damn it, he’s gonna run out of memory so, so fast. And he’ll have to remember to be more careful when he’s working for Vyv.

‘Yeah,’ Prompto says, still staring. ‘Okay. The best, then.’

Ignis’ hand is on his elbow, and Prompto grabs it, linking fingers. He squeezes, Ignis squeezes back, and Prompto’s heart does a little flip in his throat. He is definitely about to kiss Ignis, very soon, but there’s one thing he needs to clear up first. Something really, really important, _deadly_ important, to be able to stand in the way of him and Ignis’ perfect lips.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Yes?’

‘You still remember that recipe, right? Just, you know. For reasons.’


End file.
